


a sweet spring shower (just to lend a helping hand)

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Caning, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rain, Spanking, mention of all sorts of sex toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian worries about having said the wrong thing in an interview. Chris helps reassure him: he's always Chris's good boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one: reassurance

**Author's Note:**

> For [stevetopsbuckysbottom](http://stevetopsbuckysbottom.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Inspired by [this fabulous Evanstan joint interview](http://collider.com/captain-america-civil-war-chris-evans-sebastian-interview/). 
> 
> Title courtesy of Earth, Wind, and Fire's "Love Is Life," because Chris Evans.
> 
> Written this afternoon, quickly. And I, um, thought this would be shorter. Sorry?

“Paul’s going to think I hate him.”  
  
Chris raises eyebrows, insofar as he can while lying down naked with Sebastian Stan firmly attached to his side. “Nobody thinks that, you know.”  
  
“I just meant it was hard to work with him because I got starstruck! I couldn’t talk.” Sebastian, safely nestled alongside Chris’s warmth in defiance of grey skies, shoves the iPad onto the closest bedside table as if that’ll dismiss the entire interview. Mourns, “What did I even _say_.”  
  
“We all know about you and celebrities,” Chris contributes helpfully. “Like the time you walked into a refrigerator when—”  
  
“—when I first saw Robert Redford, yes, thank you for that reminder.” Sebastian puts an elbow into Chris’s stomach. They’re idly recuperating after the morning’s first round of earthshattering sex, tangled together in the big airy bed in Chris’s big airy house in Los Angeles. Sebastian’s been staying here for months, in fact, though the media hasn’t yet caught on. Just easier. For interviews and promotional events and premieres. For them both.  
  
For them both in so many ways, inside and out.  
  
“Oof,” Chris says to the elbow, mock-winded and happy. “Seriously, though, Paul thinks you’re scared of him. He asked what he could do to help. He texted me about it.”  
  
“He did not.”  
  
“Did so. I can show you.”  
  
“Oh fuck me,” Sebastian grumbles, and tries to hide his face in Chris’s chest. Rain patters down above, merrily explaining the situation to tree-branches and window-panes. Contentment glows in Chris’s heart like a bonfire: home, with Sebastian.  
  
This house isn’t quite on the beach, but it does have picture windows and beach views: sky and boundless waves and a beckoning horizon. Serenity and adventure, rippling motion and tranquil rhythm. Like the man at his side: his oasis and center, the person who’s calm when Chris’s brain stumbles over expectations and Chris’s heart pounds too fast, the person who tells him he doesn’t have to be constantly perfect or put-together and that’s okay, he can take care of Seb anyway, just the way Seb needs.  
  
They’ve kept their respective other homes, in Boston and New York City. They sometimes even visit each other’s homes in Boston and New York City. They love their hometowns. Can’t imagine giving those places up.  
  
_This_ place is theirs. Together.  
  
Technically, yeah, it’d been Chris’s first. He’ll concede that maybe he bought it. His name on the deed. A place to stay during Los Angeles visits, a space more personal and less stressful than a hotel environment. Hadn’t been a home until Sebastian’s ever-multiplying collections of scarves and skinny jeans and paperback novels had moved in.   
  
Right now the California sky’s pouring rain, grey over blue like liquid opals, falling in languid streamers from dark swirls of cloud. Their bed’s cozy and rumpled and tired but contented too.  
  
He runs a hand through Sebastian’s hair. Kitten-soft strands, shorter again these days, fluff up familiarly at his touch. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Just say hi to him next time.” He even adds, deliberately extra-encouraging, “I’ll be there to hold your hand.”  
  
Sebastian makes a very rude gesture at him, which is exactly the reaction Chris was hoping for, so he grins in reply and strokes a hand down Seb’s back, idly tracing solid muscle, amazed yet again at the strength and flexibility that’s willingly devoutly curled up naked at his side. His body stirs, not a hundred percent back to arousal but absolutely getting there.   
  
Just Seb. That effect on him. Forever.  
  
“I think I fixed it,” Sebastian says this time, under the cadence of falling rain. “I mean about not giving anything away. About any scenes with Paul. Suggesting we just ran into each other at craft service. Do you think I fixed it?”  
  
“Nope.” He taps fingers over Sebastian’s shoulder: soothing in the face of honesty. “But that’s okay. It’s not like that’s a big plot point. So audiences know Bucky’s in a scene with Ant-Man, so what, that’s basically in all the trailers anyway. You’re good.”  
  
Wide winter-pale eyes gaze up at him; his reassurances’ve only half-helped. Sebastian’s got stunning eyes—Sebastian’s got stunning everything, of course, lips and chin-dimple and legs like a half-grown colt, but Chris had fallen head over heels for those eyes the first time they’d shyly brought him coffee on a chilly _First Avenger_ set and lit up like holidays when he’d accepted the cup. Right now their cool water-topaz color’s unhappy.  
  
“Seb,” he says more firmly. “You’re okay. You’re good, I promise. If anyone does say anything, and they won’t, I’ll handle it.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have to.” I know about your anxiety, says that tone. I know you hate public speaking and confrontation. Forlorn.  
  
He’s wrong, though. This would be for Sebastian. And Chris will do anything for Sebastian. No anxiety at all.  
  
Well. Maybe some anxiety. But no hesitation. Not ever.  
  
Thunder rumbles in confirmation of this commitment. Sebastian props his chin on his hand over Chris’s ribs, watching Chris’s face.  
  
Chris reaches out, traces his cheek with a fingertip. Seb’s lips part on a breath.  
  
“You’re mine,” Chris reminds him softly. “That means I take care of you. What do you need right now?”  
  
“I…” With a sigh: “I need to feel better. Like I was good. Like I can still be good?”  
  
“We can do that.”  
  
“Like I need you to spank me.”  
  
“Come up here?”  
  
Sebastian instantly wriggles up closer, so they’re face to face. Chris kisses him first, more of a gentle nuzzle than anything else, shared breath and nose-bumping and the scratch of beard against smooth skin. Then asks, heart in his throat, “You think you deserve to be punished?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Seb breathes back. He’s warm and present in Chris’s arms, bodies pressed close. “If I really thought so I’d’ve asked you to put the cock cage on me, the one you don’t like because you think it hurts too much, and, um, make me kneel in the corner or something, I don’t know, but…”  
  
“But you feel off-balance,” Chris finishes, “and you want me to push you. To make you take something that—that hurts a little, so you can show me how good you can be, so you can be forgiven.”  
  
Sebastian shivers against him: desire, comprehension, gratitude for Chris getting it, getting him. “Please, sir.”  
  
They hadn’t fallen into those dynamics immediately. Not even every time, even now. Chris has always been good at being in control, happier in command and directing a scene, and yet nervous about the responsibility of that control, especially when Seb’s bruisable skin or hushed breaths are on the line. Sebastian has needed a Dominant for a very long time, someone who can praise him and make him feel cherished and loved while taking him apart in pleasurable anguish, someone to whom he can give every last geeky sarcastic purely sweet piece of himself, opened up and sincerely offered and wholly known. But he’s had one or two bad experiences—not the kind that would’ve left physical scars, but lovers who wanted only a few of those pieces, drifting away when Seb bashfully tried to give more.   
  
He’s given Chris some of those pieces gingerly, over the years: scared and hopeful and trying to deflect the emotion with a joke or a kiss. He’s given them more freely of late: as Chris has held out hands and never backed away. Childhood stories, bad puns, Romanian fairytales, the way blue eyes glance away when talking about long-past high-school bruises and wanting to fit in, that ridiculous love of Starbucks and blueberries and Bucky Barnes fan art and cats with silly folded-over ears. Chris wants it all.   
  
Chris wants whatever Sebastian feels secure enough to tell him. He can wait for the rest. He’ll hold out open hands for Sebastian forever.  
  
And they hadn’t fallen into those dynamics immediately, no, except that they had: not explicitly, not speaking it aloud, but in the language of touches, of smiles. Of Chris’s arm slung over Sebastian’s shoulders at events, Chris’s hand ruffling Seb’s hair. Chris making a joke—“I’ll take this one!”—when a question finally came Seb’s way at a press conference—and the fact that, even after the joke had faded, winter-sapphire eyes’d glanced at him before answering.  
  
Under the surface. Simmering.   
  
Until one last glance over drinks at a warp-party bar, one more smile, Seb’s hand sliding trustingly into Chris’s during the laughing run to an elevator. A hotel room, a tipping balance, a spin of the earth into a new rotation they seem to’ve forever known.   
  
Sebastian’s _his_ sweet kid. Sweetest kid on the planet, Chris has said before, and will say again. Despite the newly broad shoulders and slyly emerging sense of mischief, teasing friends, singing Green Day on stage, making jokes about his Winter Soldier arm and bottles of lube. Not shy anymore—if that’d ever been the word; Chris isn’t sure it is—but nevertheless. Sweet.  
  
Sebastian will top if the mood’s right, if Chris interrupts him while he’s conjuring up avocado-and-eggs breakfast sandwiches in the kitchen, if Chris needs to be taken out of his own head and spinning thoughts for a while. Sebastian always knows somehow. Part of that perfection. Sebastian Stan: wonderful.  
  
The rain cheers, splashing silvery down the windowpane. Inside, rumpled pillows and navy-blue sheets with their tiny shooting stars wait for him to get on with things.  
  
Sebastian’d bought these particular sheets, but Chris’d been equally excited when he’d come home with the purchase. They both do love space. NASA. Alluring bright planets and quasars and exploration.   
  
Nothing in space is as bright as Sebastian’s eyes, looking back at him. Chris did just essentially agree to spank him, after all.  
  
He puts on an appropriately stern face. “Get up, then. Hands and knees.” As ever, the first few seconds feel awkward, a role his artist’s hands and tap-dancing-lessons feet don’t quite take seriously; but with the relief in Sebastian’s near-soundless exhale, the eagerness of movement to comply…  
  
The awkwardness falls away. The world’s right. Himself giving Sebastian what those pale-ocean eyes need. Plus shimmering rain.  
  
The rustling sound wraps them up in pearls, smooth and watery as the spill of a river down a cliff, an easy slide.  
  
Sebastian waits, head bowed, on the bed.  
  
Chris, on his feet now, breathless and with a sudden achingly stiff erection, lifts a hand. Swings.  
  
He’s not holding back because Seb doesn’t want him to. His handprint burns over tanned skin. Red now.  
  
Sebastian moans. A yes buried in the sound. What he needs.  
  
“Twelve,” Chris says. “Eleven more. But there’s a catch.”  
  
Sebastian blinks, trying to look at him. Those splendid eyes have gone slightly hazy with the relief of that first impact.  
  
“I want you to talk,” Chris informs him. “When I ask you a question, or ask you to repeat something I say. If you can’t, I’m adding more to your total. Because I expect you to be good for me. Clear?”  
  
“Oh god,” Sebastian says weakly. “Yes, sir. Ah…what if…what if I do want more, though?” He manages drowsy and playful at once, with the question. Of course he does.   
  
Chris loves him so much that it hurts. Chest metaphorically bursting with the emotion. Too big to contain; it’ll just have to billow out and embrace the world.  
  
“Behave,” he says, and oh he feels like laughing for no reason, full of light, “and we’ll see.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sebastian says again, so Chris spanks him more. Hard, and harder. Enough to make him gasp. Enough to leave his backside hot and Chris’s palm and fingers tingling. Seb whimpers after the fourth hit, and falls forward: elbows and knees now, not hands, hips remaining up in supplication.  
  
“Shh,” Chris soothes, pausing to drop a kiss on his left hip, at the base of his spine, over the most recent superheated impact of hands. “You’re fine. Stay there.” He slides a hand between long lean thighs, which spread easily for him; he grins. Sebastian’s rock-hard, aroused, wet when Chris scrapes a fingernail over his slit. “You like this? Tell me.”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian moans. “Yes, Chris, yes—I love you spanking me, sir, making me feel—your hands on me, yes—”  
  
“Good boy,” Chris says, which he knows gets Seb into that headspace like nothing else: something about the praise and the hint of transgression, himself being Chris’s good little boy, spanked and praised and given orders. Works this time too: Sebastian’s breath catches, nearly a sob, and his whole body tenses with need.  
  
Four more, so eight total; he pauses again. Sebastian’s quivering, getting lost in the pain and the euphoria, but not so far gone he can’t hear. So, then: “Tell me why I’m spanking you.”  
  
“…what? Chris—I—can’t _think_ , please—”  
  
“Thirteen. Tell me.”  
  
Sebastian whines, low and broken, panting. His fingers grip sheets, twisting. His hips jerk; his cock dribbles fluid onto their sheets, painting daydream stars. “I’m—because I asked you—because I said something I shouldn’t—I need it, please, Chris, please.”  
  
“Good enough,” Chris decides, “but you’re pushing it, baby, _I_ get to decide what you need,” and cracks his hand against that lovely upturned ass again. Nine. “Next one. Tell me you’re going to be good for me.”  
  
“I am…” That voice frays at the edges, mountain-pool melody shattered by ecstasy. “I’ll be good for you, sir, I promise, I want to be good, I want—”  
  
“So good,” Chris affirms, and gives him three more in rapid succession. Sebastian trembles, quakes, exhales, and finally relaxes, body going molten and supple under the spanking. His face, pressed into their sheets, is wet: he’s crying, but he looks happy, lips parted, dazed. His ass must be throbbing; he’s red-hot under Chris’s hand, when that hand rests atop scorched skin.   
  
This one’s going to be trickier, but he’s pushed Seb enough to fall, now. Poised on the edge of that final bliss, he whispers, “Tell me you are good for me. Tell me you’re mine, and you’re good, because I say you are.”  
  
He hears the gasp. Sebastian shudders, head to toe: awash in emotion, in that space where he can only believe what Chris tells him, and Chris can _see_ him physically give in, can watch him accept the command. He’s good. He’s forgiven. He’s safe and loved. He trusts Chris completely, flying, and Chris tells him so.  
  
“I’m yours,” Sebastian whispers. His voice comes slow and dreamy, as if drunk or drugged on the weight of the proclamation. “And I’m good. For you. Because you say I am, sir.”  
  
“Such a good boy,” Chris murmurs lightly, and pets his back. Seb sighs. The rain sighs too, folding them and their love up in protective iridescence.  
  
Sebastian murmurs something that might not be English, might not be words. His hands’ve gone limp too, no longer tightly clutching sheets. Acquiescent. Beautiful. Absolved. Chris’s sweet submissive boy; Chris’s other half, heart and soul and equal strength on every film-set fight.  
  
“You said you could take more,” Chris reminds him, still petting him, running hands over him. “One more, yeah, but after that. You want a reward?”  
  
When he bends to touch Seb’s face, checking in, Sebastian kisses his fingers clumsily. Then nods, eyes drifting in and out of focus but sure about the yes.  
  
Chris slips those fingers into his mouth, lets him suckle at them for a few seconds, aimless and tactile. Seb loves having his mouth full; Seb loves having every part of him stuffed or stretched or played with, given up to be used by his Dominant.  
  
He takes the fingers away. Hears the tiny whimper of disappointment. “You remember your colors, baby? Where are we?”  
  
“ _Verde_ ,” Sebastian mumbles. “Sir…green…please, yes, anything, whatever you want, please, I need it…”  
  
“I know,” Chris whispers, and has to stop to swipe a hand across his own eyes: rain here too, like love brimming over pure and true. “I know. One more here, and then I’ve got an idea, okay? Okay.”  
  
One more. His hand shivers: firecrackers under skin. Collisions. Sparks.  
  
Sebastian moans, long and liquid. He thrusts his cock blindly into Chris’s hand when Chris caresses him.  
  
“No,” Chris says. “Not yet.”  
  
He grabs Seb’s wrists—fine-boned and elegantly clumsy, a baby egret learning to play the piano—and tugs until Seb falls flat, lying face-down over the bed. He finds their restraints—the built-in ones, secured to the bedframe—and works fast: he’s got efficient hands, and Sebastian’s utterly pliant as those hands arrange his limbs, spread his long legs, tie him down. The restraints add to the feeling of being held, being cherished, he knows.  
  
He kisses the nape of Seb’s neck, kneeling above him. Sebastian’s conscious, but only just: floating someplace golden, full of sunshine, in subspace.  
  
He gets up and finds the cane.  
  
They have two, more and less painful, both kept in flawless condition. He picks the harder one. At this point Seb will need it to register the hurt as anything more than mild butterfly-wings.  
  
He comes back. Long eyelashes flutter; Chris holds the length out to him, to his lips. Sebastian breathes out, surrendered and wanton and eager for more, and kisses polished wood.  
  
The bed isn’t the best for this. Too much give; too awkward as far as angles. But he’s not going to tie Seb to a cross right now; he’s absolutely sure Sebastian’s legs can’t support his own weight for even a minute, and Chris could tie him tightly enough for that to not matter but it’d take too long. He wants this very badly; his cock’s rigid and flushed, standing heavy between his thighs, rubbing his stomach. Arousal pools in his balls, along his spine: heady and intoxicating.  
  
Sebastian trusts him. Sebastian wants him. He’s given Seb this bliss; he can do this. He, Chris Evans, can make the man he loves feel and fall apart and fly. At his command.  
  
Safe, he thinks. Together.  
  
He trails the cane across the long plane of Seb’s back, a promise. Sebastian sighs and twitches in his bonds, fingers opening and closing restlessly, instinctively.   
  
“Only ten,” Chris says, “and you stop me if you need to, and—if you can do this, if you can take this—and you can, god, you’re so good, baby, so fucking good, I love you so much—”  
  
The storm sings to them: a low beckoning rumble. Ozone and lightning. Electric.  
  
In their bedroom, in the solace of star-patterned sheets and entwined awakenings, Chris Evans canes Sebastian Stan.   
  
He’s careful. He’s alert to every breath, every movement, no matter how tiny. He’s going to hurt Seb exactly as much as Seb wants and needs, no more. He doesn’t break skin but he does leave lines: white-hot initially, then blood-dark, as they fill in after the shock. Artwork, he thinks: stripes across Seb’s already wounded backside, so that his submissive whimpers and moans, writhing against the bed. Lower, cane snapping against the spread muscles of those thighs. They’ll hurt tomorrow; Seb might have to sleep on his stomach.  
  
That’s okay. Chris will take care of him, lotion and cuddling and gentle hand-feeding of chocolate-covered coffee-beans. Neither of them has anyplace to be for the next three days, miracle of miracles; he can keep Seb naked in wrist cuffs on willing knees, or snuggle Seb amid fluffy blankets and Disney movies, or both.   
  
Yes: both, he decides.  
  
He brings the cane down across Sebastian’s luscious ass. Glowing. Incandescent. Sebastian’s crying freely now, because it does hurt, but the pain’s cleansing. Annealing. Transcendent, Seb’d told him once, trying to explain. Like light. Like coming apart, subsumed in rapture, a loss of self in glory.  
  
Sebastian sobs and moves: not away from the cane but into it, mutely begging, beyond thought, a creature of only feeling now.   
  
Eight. Nine. Ten; and he drops the length of wood and bends down over Seb’s bound form and whispers, “Ten, baby, you were so good, you did so well, my good boy,” and Sebastian gives a mindless cry like a drop of sapphire and squirms against the bed, uncoordinated, pinned under Chris’s weight.  
  
“So good,” Chris tells him, and rubs a hand over his ass: over marks and heat and red stripes. Sebastian sobs softly; Chris trails a finger down the crease, to his pretty pink hole. That muscle flutters: needing him, pleading for him. “Still green, baby?”  
  
Sebastian moans, containing no words. Chris sighs, lifts the finger away. “Not gonna give you any more if you can’t at least check in, and also I love you.” That’s important. Sebastian needs to hear it, he’s figured out, especially in moments of doubt. “Come on, come back, just for a sec. One more time. For me.”  
  
It takes a few panting breaths and Seb never fully opens his eyes, but he does stretch out one hand, as much as he can with straps around his wrist, black on golden skin. Chris takes it, laces their fingers together. “…green,” Sebastian murmurs. “Sir. Just—a little more, please…”  
  
“Oh, totally more,” Chris says, kissing his fingers. “I’m gonna make you come, and then I’m gonna fuck you while you’re too sensitive, so you feel it all, so it’s too much, because you love that.” He strokes hair out of mostly-closed eyes. “I love that too. And you need it right now, you need to feel it, because you’re safe and I forgive you and you’re my sweet boy and I want you to just know that, okay?”  
  
Sebastian’s breath carries a faraway quiet yes, somnolent. He’s drifting: deeper than Chris might’ve thought they’d get, if he’d stopped to think about it, for a second round of the morning. On the other hand, maybe that’s making it easier; he’ll have to ask Seb about it after the scene, once they’ve both recovered enough to discuss.  
  
He grabs lube. He warms it in his hands; he slicks fingers, the opening of Sebastian’s body. He slides one finger in, then two; Seb opens up for him as if that’s precisely the answer to every craving in the universe. Seb’s body’s sweet too, yielding without struggle. Chris’s, completely.  
  
“Mine,” he says, a reminder, and fills him up more: three fingers sliding in and out of his hole, lube and wet gleaming around them. Sebastian’s making helpless openmouthed sounds beneath him, rocking hips into the bed. He won’t come until Chris gives him permission; they’ve strictly and memorably enforced that rule. Sometimes even on the occasions they switch, just because: after all, they both get off on that one, Seb fucking Chris with that gorgeous thick cock but not allowed to come until his Dominant’s good and ready.  
  
Right now he wants Sebastian to come. He plunges fingers back in. Finds that delicate bundle of nerve endings. Plays that shaking body with his fingers: right there, over and over, relentless.   
  
He orders, “Come for me, baby,” and Sebastian does, hips pumping into the mattress, not caring that he’s spilling himself on their bed, their furniture, at Chris’s command. He keeps moving, and Chris keeps teasing him, drawing the orgasm out, making him sob and twitch and spurt again, weak jerks of his hips into his own mess on the sheets.  
  
He’s wonderful: collapsed into sensation, trusting Chris with body and soul, and oh that’s Chris’s strength and heartbreaking fear and infinite gratitude simultaneously: Sebastian loves him, Sebastian thinks him worthy of this gift.   
  
Maybe he can be. Because those pale delighted eyes make him so.  
  
He slips fingers out—Sebastian’s barely present now, high as a kite on endorphins and overstimulation, moaning incoherently at sudden emptiness—and settles himself between those bound legs and pushes in. His cock, disappearing into that well-stretched hole, between searing imprints of hand and cane. His marks on Sebastian’s body. His.  
  
His heart’s in those marks. If Sebastian belongs to him, then the flip side’s also true: each stroke’s an offering and a talisman. He’s given his heart into those pianist’s hands to carry. Etched in every line.  
  
He fucks Sebastian fast and rough because he can’t wait, because Sebastian wants that, because his body’s realized it’s thrust home and demands that he hurtle ahead toward the pinnacle _now_. He’s breathless, hips slamming into Seb’s; slick muscle grips his cock and the heat of Seb’s ass meets his skin. His ears fill up with Sebastian’s desperate cries as Chris takes him: oversensitive after climax, overstimulated, lost in brilliant pleasure that tips over into fractured rainbows of hurt.  
  
Sebastian could safeword out, even now. Has before, twice: once only a yellow, a slow-down, because he’d felt dizzy in that particular position, and once a full stop because Chris’d unknowingly said something that hit a long-buried emotional wound. Chris has safeworded out too, once. He’d looked at Seb’s skin, at a misjudged swing and a single horrific unintentional bead of wet scarlet and Seb not calling stop immediately, and hadn’t been able to breathe.  
  
The safety net’s held them before. It’ll hold now.  
  
He trusts Sebastian with everything. As Sebastian trusts him.  
  
And maybe he’s exactly the sappy romantic he’s always joked about being, because that thought, oh—  
  
That’s what pushes him over the edge. Looking down at Sebastian’s back, the line of his throat as Chris’s sweat trickles down, thinking: with everything.  
  
He moves. One more thrust, and one more, his body falling atop Sebastian’s, his hands finding Seb’s wrists in their bonds—  
  
He comes buried deep inside his submissive, climax pulsing out in wave after wave of thunderous joy.  
  
The actual thunder, having a spectacular sense of dramatic timing, growls applause.  
  
Chris lies there, holding Seb down with his weight, getting breath back for a few seconds. Sebastian’s hole clenches and loosens around his length; Sebastian’s hips move again, rocking a few more desultory times into the wet pool of his own come, and gradually slow, and still.  
  
Chris sits up, flings off all the restraints, and yanks the other half of his soul into his arms.  
  
Sebastian’s crying but not in a wrong way, not in a scary way; these’re the tears that come from decimated bodily control and the sheer onslaught of sensation. He holds onto Chris in a way that’s almost innocent, a sort of broken instinctual clinging to his Dominant’s strength. Chris pets him, kisses him, murmurs words about how good he is, how incredible, how loved.  
  
Sebastian wakes up a little more, cries a little more—coming down from the high—and after that goes quiet, drifting in and out, and finally cuddles more closely, spaced-out, fuzzy but peaceful. Chris, feeling pretty fuzzy and peaceful too, kisses his nose. “You awake yet?”  
  
“Mmm…no. God. Sir. That…did I miss anything?”  
  
“Nah. You were pretty out of it near the end, but you remember me fucking you…” He doesn’t mean that to be a question, but it wants to be as he’s talking; the sentence wavers.  
  
“Mostly. I knew you were. But everything’s…” Seb waves a hand, even less coordinated than usual. He manages to hit Chris’s bicep; Chris captures the hand and folds it up in his. “Blue and gold. Fluffy. Cotton-candy clouds in my head. With sunlight. I feel fantastic. Tired. But fantastic.”  
  
“Better?” Chris would shrug—you know what I mean, he’d mean—but he’s supporting Seb, sitting up with his back against the headboard, keeping his submissive cradled in his lap. His knee’s sort of in the wet spot. Oh well. “You know.”  
  
Sebastian thinks about this for a while. Processing’s still happening bit by bit. “Much, I think.” He yawns. Sebastian yawning is adorable, Chris concludes for approximately the five hundredth time. “More centered. You made me say that I…that you were…you thought I was good. Whatever I said. In the interview, I mean.”  
  
“Yep,” Chris fills in cheerfully, petting his hair. “Can I give you a bath and get you warm and then do something about those stripes? You’re going to hurt later. And I do think you’re good. And, um, you said I was in charge, so, um, so there.”  
  
Sebastian laughs, worn out and fond, head pillowed on Chris’s chest. The rain slackens, worn out too, and then picks back up at Seb’s next words. “Yes, sir. That did help.”  
  
“Did it?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Chris. Do you want it in other languages? How many?”  
  
“Then I’m glad.” He kisses the top of that beloved head. “I sort of love you a lot, y’know.”  
  
“I know,” Seb says, looking up: his gaze’s an odd mix of introspective and merry. “I do. Know. I believe you when you say things. You can bathe me if you’re willing to go run the bath; my legs’re absolutely nonexistent at the moment. Chris?”  
  
“I can totally do that. What do you need? Water, orange juice, your chocolate coffee-bean things, more cuddling and fuzzy blankets, painkillers, what?”  
  
“Yes to water and chocolate and cuddling, please. Actually I was thinking about the interview. What you said. Your phone.”  
  
“…yeah,” Chris says. Guiltily. Raindrops snicker to the Pacific Ocean beyond the wide bedroom window; Sebastian glances out and smiles.  
  
“You wouldn’t be talking about those photos, would you?” One corner of that expressive mouth quirks up at him: awake, exhausted, cheeky. “You know which ones. You were going to be lonely without me, when I was in China, you said…you wanted pictures of me, you said…”  
  
“You can’t see your face!”  
  
“No,” Sebastian agrees, “I could deny everything. You, on the other hand…Captain America has pictures of some very impressive knotwork and my naked body. And you thought it’d be a good idea to mention that. In an interview.”  
  
“Not, um,” Chris says. “Not, y’know, _specifically_ …”  
  
“You wanted me to know exactly what you were thinking. Right then. In front of journalists.”  
  
“It worked,” Chris points out. He’s not embarrassed. He’d dared the line, and he’d made Seb turn pink and trip over an answer, and they’ve gotten away with it so far: skirting the curtain-edge of shared secrets and revelation, crazy and heart-thrilling. “You blushed.”  
  
“Hey, look,” Sebastian says lazily, “my Dominant’s a dick.” He’s kissing Chris’s collarbone, lips warm, body heavy and drowsy and sated, made love to and beloved.  
  
“You love your Dominant’s dick.”  
  
“I do,” Sebastian agrees, “I really do,” and leans up as Chris leans down, so their lips meet beneath the sparkle and splash of California rain and the infinite roll of sea-waves below.


	2. chapter two: the facebook interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next interview, and consequences thereof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to get this one up today in honor of Bucky Barnes' 99th Birthday!
> 
> Also, THIS chapter is because of [Sebastian Stan's amazing facebook MoviePilot interview](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/140715322169/phimistr-help-i-am-dead-now).

“ ‘You know who that man is’?” Chris quotes at him, the line from his impression, the second he walks in the door.  
  
“Revenge,” Sebastian retorts sweetly, “for your phone comment, sir.” Kicking off his boots—they land in their accustomed heap by the corner—he watches Chris’s face. He knows he’ll make Chris smile. He’s right.  
  
“And apparently I pick my nose.”   
  
“Well, you do.”  
  
“Like, twice that you’ve ever seen!”  
  
“That I’ve seen? And did you want me to lie?” Sebastian widens eyes guilelessly. He loves his Dominant. Heart and soul. With all he is.  
  
Chris Evans would never be happy with a spineless opinionless submissive other half. That’s not a judgement—he’s got friends who love that role—but it’s not what would fit for _his_ Dom. Chris Evans needs someone who’ll tease him and nudge him—gently, with care—into trying new things; someone who’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with him and offer those shoulders as support when he needs that and be a cheerful sarcastic little brat in want of a spanking when Chris needs _that_.  
  
Sebastian will spend his life trying to be everything for Chris Evans. It’s an honor.  
  
He comes over for a kiss, sock-clad feet padding over pale wood. Chris cradles his face and pulls him close and tips him upward—not far, only an inch or so, but Sebastian adores that feeling, being arranged the way Chris wants him—and brings their lips together. Sebastian parts his willingly, drinking Chris in.  
  
“Love you,” Chris says into the kiss. “You taste like coffee and mist.”  
  
The world’s not raining today but remains cool and silvery, the promise of water-drops hanging in the air like enchantment. The ocean coils and swirls in tranquil slate beyond the windows.   
  
Sebastian’s always had just a bit of difficulty with grey days. Cold he can handle, particularly with a frothy latte and Chris as a sort of oversized body-pillow. Grey and flat—not today’s mysterious sparkle, but an endless blank unchanging march of dullness—well. Those days give him a colorless feeling, lethargic, lonely.  
  
Chris knows about this and has apparently decided on his own that _any_ kind of cloudy weather requires extra chocolate and surprise book-purchases and full-body forceful cuddles. Sebastian, startled and amused and fond, is disinclined to argue against any of those things, and anyway Chris likes to feel he’s being a successful stalwart protector against enemy weather patterns.  
  
Chris kisses him tenderly—that protectiveness again, given the sky—but with a hint of scolding mingled with laughter. “And you kissed that girl, the interviewer—”  
  
“On the cheek!” He’d known exactly what reaction he’d get at home.  
  
“—and you talked about, what was it, how _a lot of men_ watched you have massively athletic sex on camera—”  
  
“Also true! Assistant directors, prop masters, extras…” He’s laughing too. “Something you want to say to me, sir?”  
  
“You’re such a fucking brat,” Chris says, affectionate. Waves’re flirting with California mist, outside. Their home is warm because Chris has made a fire—Chris is very much an outdoorsman in many ways, along with an artist and a tap-dancer and a number of other layers that make Sebastian’s heart glow—and their bookshelves sprawl out across various walls, filled with volumes they’ve both bought, nestled together.  
  
“You’re smiling,” Chris says this time, interrupting his reflective train of thought. Not a bad interruption; Sebastian returns attention that way, ready to be asked anything. Without Chris, the leaping fire and the extensive paperbacks wouldn’t feel like home. “I love when you get all sassy in interviews. Means everyone gets to see you, the way you light up a room. Means I get to spank you for it at home.”  
  
“Are you planning to? Or only discuss it? Because—”  
  
Chris growls very satisfactorily. Grabs Sebastian’s jacket. Yanks it halfway down: effectively immobilizing his arms. Then puts hands on his shoulders and shoves.  
  
He could physically argue—Chris is stronger, but they’ve both had fight training and intensive workout regimens—but he doesn’t want to. Never, never about this. The beating heart of the intimacy between them.  
  
He falls to his knees on the wood-plank floor. He doesn’t struggle against the pinning of his arms. He looks up.  
  
Chris reaches down. Cups his cheek with one hand; traces the line of his lips with a fingertip.  
  
Sebastian shivers, closes both eyes, opens them. Falls all over again.  
  
That’s the core of this: he wants to. To kneel. To surrender. To belong to someone. He’d nearly cried with relief the first time Chris’d put a hand on his head. He _had_ wept, after. He’s not sure he’s ever truly managed to explain.  
  
The instinct had tugged at them both from the beginning. Chris calling him a sweet kid in interviews, words that twisted pleasantly in Sebastian’s gut. Chris touching him, a possessive hand on his chest, a hand ruffling his hair. After the hair moment—in public, no less—he’d had to make an excuse and flee to a men’s room, because it was that or drop to both knees and beg to suck Chris Evans’ cock in the middle of a party.  
  
He’s always liked older, stronger, authoritative men and women; he loves being good when given orders, behaving for someone, paradoxical shining freedom in complete yielding of will. He’d been very tired, though, when he’d first met Chris Evans. Too many of those men and women who wanted only the yielding, only for a night, and did not care whether he liked coffee or tea in the morning, or who took exception to the less-than-meek sarcasm that occasionally snuck out of his mouth, and painfully chastised him for it.  
  
Chris isn’t like anyone else.  
  
Chris has a heart big enough to hold all of Sebastian’s pieces. Chris cries unabashedly at waterfalls and Pixar movies. Chris wears each emotion, love and fear and apprehension and enthusiasm, on his face, in the gestures of big hands, in the duck of his head. Chris cares so beautifully, and Chris has _always_ made him feel safe, and Sebastian would die for him, would take a bullet or run in front of a moving vehicle or bargain his own life away with a fairytale reaper to keep that big heart beating one more day.  
  
He wonders whether Chris knows. How deep his love runs, how much of himself he’d spill.  
  
“Hey.” Chris taps his cheek. “What’re you thinking about? You’re not here.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says hastily. “I’m here.” And he needs to stop thinking about ways he’d die for Chris. Ways to live for Chris, instead. Cozy blankets and morning coffee and sleepy kisses. His continuing secret quest to find a West Coast equivalent for Chris’s favorite scruffy Boston pizza joint. He might have to just try to replicate that one from scratch. He’s not bad in a kitchen. Might be able to do it.  
  
He can give Chris everything. He knows that deep down in his bones, though his poor bruised heart’s only just getting used to the idea. Gradually, he thinks, bit by bit: he can offer Chris all of himself to hold. And he has been. He is.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, simply. He means it. “I’m here. I’m yours.” True as the golden flicker of flame in the fireplace, honest as the beat of his pulse through his veins.  
  
“Are you?” Chris touches his cheek again. “Here. Not back in an interview, or—anyplace, um, cold.”  
  
Sebastian makes a face at him, kneeling, head tilted into Chris’s hand. “I’m fine, sir. I was thinking about pizza.”  
  
Chris blinks. Then laughs.  
  
“Clearly you’ll have to punish me more,” Sebastian says helpfully.  
  
“Are you actually hungry?” But that Dominant mantle’s falling into place, the way that Chris wears it: not stern and impassive, but commanding and caring and protective. Not emotionless. Brimming over.  “Tell me if you are, and I’ll make that part of it. Not gonna do this with you lightheaded or, like, having low blood sugar or something, so tell me now.”  
  
“I’m all right. I had a sandwich at the Starbucks in the hotel. Before they drove me home.” He adds, best innocent face securely on display, “The interviewer paid for mine. She was very kind.”  
  
Chris makes a sound. Sebastian thinks about muscular shoulders and possessive providing of sustenance and possibly primal caves. “Nope.”  
  
“…you can’t say no to something that’s already happened, sir.”  
  
“Okay,” Chris grumbles happily, “that’s it, you’re asking for it, you want me to punish you? Really punish you?”  
  
Sebastian nods, as best he can with Chris’s other hand now finding purchase in his hair.  
  
Chris looks at him, steady. Their eyes meet, question asked and answered; Chris nods, and releases the hair with a jerk: forceful enough to make him wobble a fraction on his knees, without the ability to counterbalance with arms. Chris grins. “Fine. I will. I’m gonna make sure you know who you belong to, after this. _My_ sweet boy. No one else’s. Mine.”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian whispers, or thinks he does. Gilded waters closing in. Honeyed lassitude, the jeweled swirl of submission and devotion, suffusing his bones.  
  
“I want you right here,” Chris decides, looking down at him. “On your knees, on the floor, while I fuck that mouth. The mouth you keep running off, baby. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”  
  
Which isn’t a serious question; but Sebastian inquires, “How exactly is that punishment, again?” just to push those laughingly stern eyes a fraction more. Because he can.  
  
“Oh really,” Chris says. “Oh, _really_.”  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
Chris sets an index finger over his mouth. Sebastian gets quiet instantly. He’s not _really_ a brat—well, no, he is, he can’t claim otherwise. But he never pushes _that_ far. And he wants to be chastised for it. He wants to know his place; he wants to be made to be good; he wants to kneel at Chris’s feet and be silenced by those artist’s hands on his body.  
  
His mouth tingles with the heat of Chris’s finger, hushing him. His words scatter, autumn leaves blown away by command.  
  
“God, I love your mouth,” Chris says, reading his mind. “The way you laugh, the way you smile…the way you make fun of me, yeah, okay…but also the way you look when that mouth’s full of my cock, taking it…” His hand’s gentle when it slips over to stroke Sebastian’s cheek, to cradle his head. “But what am I gonna do with you, Seb? You need me to scold you right now? Make you mine all over again? Not gonna spank you, you like that too much. And this is about you belonging to me. What I want from you. You being a good little boy and taking it.”  
  
Sebastian whimpers involuntarily. He’s too hot suddenly, skin prickling, the layers of his shirt and pants and imprisoning jacket far too close and tangible. His cock’s rock-hard and pushing upward. Sensations expand hazily into firelit clouds; edges soften and blur.  
  
“Open your mouth.”   
  
He does.  
  
Chris doesn’t bother to strip, only unzips jeans and draws out his cock, leisurely. He strokes himself once while Sebastian—kneeling, face upturned, lips parted—watches: thick arousal-flushed length sliding through his own hand.   
  
Sebastian whimpers again. Tries very hard not to rock his hips forward, erection pressing uselessly into his pants and thin air. He wants that cock in his mouth, in his throat, filling him up until he’s suffused by Chris, breathing and tasting Chris, nothing left but Chris.  
  
Chris watches him: dominant and commanding, but also assessing, careful, keeping an eye on his needs. Sebastian’s heart kindles at that familiar love. Burns so brightly he might drown in splendor.  
  
Chris pushes that wonderful cock into his mouth, one deliberate inexorable movement. Doesn’t stop until he’s sunk to the hilt, down in Sebastian’s throat, and Sebastian’s struggling to breathe, lips wrapped around the base, nose buried in Chris’s heat and curly short hair, heat of male thighs and muscles surrounding him.   
  
Chris pulls back. Sebastian, empty and panting, moans. His lips’re wet: from his mouth, from Chris’s excitement.  
  
And Chris plunges back in. Fucking his mouth in earnest now. Hard thrusts. Deep. Punishing, except this isn’t punishment, this is glorious; he feels his body go soft and supple and molten, licked by flame. He’s not in charge of motion or rhythm at all; Chris steadies his head and holds him in place and takes him, and Sebastian’s mind goes pleasurably blank and gilded-white, like sun through clouds.  
  
A voice. Talking. And Chris has pulled back, hands on him, cock resting sticky over his lips. “Still here? If you are, one more thing.”  
  
He has to open his eyes. More difficult than he’d expected. Even tiny motions feel weighted, liquid and slow, swimming through honey. “Green.”  
  
Chris laughs softly. “Thanks. So, then. You said punish you. So I’ve got an idea.”  
  
Sebastian tries to indicate the _yes sir go on_ with his eyes. Talking’s _hard_.  
  
“Stay put,” Chris says, and goes away—Sebastian trembles; is this part of it, is Chris displeased and leaving him alone, he’ll be good without question but that’s a real punishment, one they reserve for serious issues, and he’s scared now—and comes back. Holding one of their red toy balls. “Seb? Hey, no, look at me, no, I’m not mad, I swear. You’re good. You’re being good. You are already. I love you.”  
  
He manages a nod. He trusts Chris. Chris says he’s okay. And that calms him anew.  
  
“I just went to grab this.” Holding up the ball. This is familiar; Sebastian can feel his heart-rate quicken. Chris really isn’t mad at him, then. And he knows what’s coming. “You need to stop, you drop this, okay? Since you won’t be able to talk.”  
  
He opens his mouth to say yes again.  
  
“—or breathe.”  
  
Sebastian kneels in place, very still, as the shuddering flood of that promise breaks over him like a spun-sugar wave. He dissolves into it. He drifts on the words.  
  
“And you don’t get to come.” Chris grins down at him: happy assertion. “Unless you can come just from this. If you can, if you can come in your pants, on your knees, from my cock in your mouth, then you have permission. If not, then you don’t get to come today.”  
  
His whole body reacts. Tightening, lifting, needing. That delirious ocean sweeping down his spine, through his balls, through his straining shaft and swollen head and the tip that’s already leaking into his clinging red briefs, red because he likes the secret pop of color and the sparkle in his other half's eyes _at_ the color. He can feel the wet patch growing; the thought and sensation combine to make him squirm in humiliation and pleasure. Chris wants him to come this way; he’s sure he can. He’s so good for Chris.  
  
“Color,” Chris asks, a request with an order behind it, exactly right. “One more time, please.”  
  
Sebastian murmurs “Green” and hears the languid sound of his own voice without surprise. Blurred by rapture. His head threatens to loll; Chris holds him up. His knees don’t hurt even though their floor’s flat wood; the floor’s wonderful and the firelight tracing Chris’s shape is wonderful and the restraint of his arms is wonderful. He’s made of clouds.  
  
Chris smiles. Chris bends down to kiss him: lips to lips, not caring that Sebastian’s are messy and clumsy with bliss.  
  
Chris presses the ball into his left hand. Sebastian curls fingers around it, twists his arm into a better position. He won’t drop it accidentally.  
  
The foggy California afternoon glows. Sparks leap, overjoyed.  
  
This time Chris fucks him even more mercilessly. Harder thrusts. Hands on his head: holding him down around the iron length as hips push forward and steal his next gasping inhale and close off airways. Chris keeps him there until he’s dizzy, spots flickering across his vision, then lets him up; oxygen bursts like fireworks into his lungs. He nearly falls.  
  
Chris does it again.  
  
The blunt weight of his Dominant’s cock pushes back into his throat, all the way back; his eyes tear up and he can’t breathe, but it’s so brilliant and so exquisite, Chris’s hands on him—one hand cupping the back of his head, keeping him down, while the other sneaks down and settles over his throat beneath his jawline and squeezes—  
  
He shudders, goes limp in Chris’s hold. His body’s moving without full awareness: hips jerking, cock twitching. He’s close to coming and yet not, removed from what’s happening somehow, euphoria settled around his mind like the mist and keeping him in a state where every infinitesimal sensation floods him with indistinguishable endless ecstasy.  
  
Chris permits him one more breath. Sebastian’s trembling. He needs—he needs more, he needs this to never end, but he belongs to Chris and Chris will _tell_ him what he needs, will give him what he needs, and as that comprehension ripples through him he loses his train of thought, loses the ability to comprehend anything else.  
  
He belongs to Chris. Chris loves him. Chris wants him.  
  
He knows he’s being good, knows he’s doing well for his Dominant, because Chris is saying so, murmuring the words over and over: _so good, so beautiful, taking this for me, my Sebastian, my good boy—_  
  
Chris keeps him on his knees and pushes his head down again. Doesn’t let go or let up. Sebastian relaxes into the grip, into the marvelous feeling of that cock filling up his mouth, his throat. Lightheaded, buoyed up by the feeling, aware that his lungs are out of oxygen but trusting Chris and gladly surrendering to every impossibly drawn-out infinite coruscating second, whatever Chris wants with him—  
  
He comes almost without noticing, a sudden slow vast ripple that’s another transcendent facet of the flame-glow. He feels the heat and the wetness spreading; feels his balls draw tight and his cock empty itself peacefully, spilling release into his pants as Chris’s hand tightens in his hair.  
  
Chris groans, an abrupt gut-punched sound, and gives one more short sharp thrust of hips, and comes too. Hot jets of his climax pump down Sebastian’s throat; Sebastian, dizzy and airless, tries to swallow but can’t move and can’t think and simply collapses into his Dominant’s hands, unable to stay upright as the intensity and the lack of air combine to inundate his senses—  
  
He never quite loses consciousness, but the world’s dim and undefined for a while. He can hear Chris but can’t make out words. He can feel Chris’s come soothing his bruised throat, dribbling over his tongue, spilling from his parted lips when the cock leaves his mouth and he can finally pant for air. He loses time, flying, then. High up and reverent and weightless as rainbows.   
  
He comes down gradually. Warmth registers first. He’s warm. Less sticky. Someplace soft and yet muscular. Someplace that feels and smells like Chris Evans and firegleam and possibly their sofa. Under a woolly blanket. Chris is rubbing his back, voice low and unhurried and rumbling in his chest where Seb’s snuggled against him. “—such a good boy, god, I can’t even—everything you give, you give me so much, so fuckin’ incredible, the way you trust me, and I—I love you so much, Sebastian. My sweet boy. I know you can’t hear words, so you can’t make fun of me, you said you like the sound though, so I’m gonna do that, everything you say you want, for fucking ever, y’know?”  
  
Sebastian’s awake enough at this point to potentially try an interjection, but he’s feeling lazy and sated and loved, so he doesn’t. Just lies there listening.  
  
Also he’s naked under the blanket. So’s Chris. Hmm. More fuzzy than he’d thought. But he likes being naked with Chris.  
  
His toes feel warm and fuzzy too. Toes can totally feel warm and fuzzy. And pink, he adds mentally. Pink and warm and fuzzy. Like sunrises. Fulfilled.  
  
“I want to give you everything,” Chris says, stroking his hair. “I want—I don’t even know. I’m a total romantic and you know that, just, like, a complete sap, but you knew, you knew what you were getting into, so no arguing, just let me say this. I want everything you want to give me. I want to take care of you when you want that and I want to figure out how to keep up with you when you keep me on my toes and I want to watch you smile in the morning when I bring you coffee in bed. I, um. I want…I don’t know if you’d even want, but…everything, um, every morning, for, like, ever, and don’t interrupt, stay asleep, I’m just talking…”  
  
Sebastian at this point couldn’t’ve interrupted if he’d wanted to. Oh, he thinks dazedly. Oh. This isn’t going where he’s imagining. Is it?  
  
Could it?  
  
Yes, his heart whispers, awed by joy. Yes.  
  
Chris strokes hair out of his face under the blanket—Sebastian, pulse hammering, keeps eyes closed—and tells him, Boston-harbor tides coming through the way they do on tugs of deep emotion, “I just want you to know I think about that. Askin’ you. That question. I know it’s too soon and our schedules’re fuckin’ crazy and you might not be ready for, you might not even want—but for me, just so you know, it’s all the morning coffee. And evening coffee. Craft services on set. Hell, overpriced Starbucks in art museums and bookstores. Every Starbucks. The rest of my life. I love you. You, um, you can stay asleep if you want but I’m kinda getting worried here, it’s been a while, so maybe wake up for me, baby?”  
  
One big hand touches Sebastian’s throat. Checks that pulse. Pauses; of course it’s too fast. Sebastian’s head’s spinning. Yes, yes, fuck yes, forever. Every morning. Every day. A lifetime.  
  
“Seb?” Chris taps his cheek. “Okay, maybe more worried now? Come on, come on, wake up, come back—”  
  
Sebastian hastily opens his eyes. Has to catch his breath all over again: Chris looms over him, engulfing him in anxious loving concern. “Seb, baby, are you okay, did we hurt you, can you breathe, talk to me—”  
  
“Chris?” His throat’s kind of sore. Bruised by forceful thrusts. He likes it. “ _Te iubesc_.”  
  
“Love you too. Always.” Chris cuddles him more fiercely. “You sound tired.”  
  
“I am. But that was…that was…” He stops, breathes out a laugh. Lightness everyplace. Fingers, toes, the newborn _completely_ explicable giddy joy scampering through veins. “Exactly what I needed.”  
  
“You didn’t tap out…”  
  
“Not even close.” He pokes Chris’s chest with a wobbly finger. Chris’s chest is a spectacular example of human flawlessness, and also an excellent pillow for post-scene napping. “You’ll have to work on keeping up with me, sir.”  
  
Chris starts to answer. Stops, eyes narrowing. “…were you awake? Just now.”  
  
“Ah…”  
  
“Don’t lie to me.” It's half an order, half a plea.  
  
“Maybe? Mostly toward the end.”  
  
“You didn’t hear—”  
  
“Oh yes I did.”  
  
“—oh _fuck_ ,” Chris gulps, tiny mortified sound from behind the beard, eyes huge, and literally claps a hand over his mouth, at which point Sebastian gives up and starts laughing.  
  
He’s exhausted and delighted and crazily stupidly happy, the kind of happy he’d thought only existed in made-up fairytales; he knows he’s still floating in the aftermath of a good scene and the good high.  
  
But he’s not going to crash. He’s got Chris. He’s got Chris and Chris has him and they’re going to be _perfect_ together. And naked together. Quite a lot.  
  
He says, “You’re right about our schedules. And about moving fast. And about me. I’ve been—I’m more me now than I’ve ever been. Or I’m starting to be. But that’s because of you, a lot of it anyway. I love you.”  
  
“I love you,” Chris breathes, muffled because he’s forgotten to move the hand. Sebastian reaches up, his own fingers slightly shaky, and does it for him.   
  
“I love you,” he says again. “So—so not yet. Not now. But soon. Yes. When you ask me, yes.”  
  
Chris’s lips shape the echo of the yes, amazed. Chris’s eyes are wide and shining. The fire hums and crackles, pouring heat and light into their living room, into their blanket-nest.  
  
Sebastian leans in. Notes, mouth millimeters from being kissed, “I expect a proper proposal, when you do ask. One knee. A ring. Personal and heartfelt. Possibly chocolate-covered blueberries. You did say you were a total sappy romantic, sir.”  
  
And Chris starts laughing, puts a hand back in his hair, yanks him in for the kiss, and proclaims, “Absolutely blueberries, chocolate-covered _everything_ , nothing but the best for _my_ sweet boy.”  
 


	3. chapter three: your wildest dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kisses Seb’s eyebrow. “I love you, kid. What are your wildest dreams, anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And THIS chapter is because of [their wonderful tumblr q&a](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/140869000989/the-stonedsoldier-source-submitted-by).
> 
> Note really a warning but just in case: contains discussion, not actual performance of, all sorts of kink, from figging to sounding, as they talk about fantasies.
> 
> There MIGHT be one more chapter, but we'll see.

“Random question,” Chris asks, idly running a hand through his submissive’s hair. They’re flopped across the couch, Sebastian tucked between his legs while raindrops scatter in halfhearted bursts over ocean outside. “Unless you’re busy.”  
  
Sebastian looks up from the iPad. He’s reading the first Harry Potter book, in response to fan bafflement over this gap in cultural knowledge. His hair brushes over Chris’s hand like silk when he tips his head into the petting. “Which Hogwarts house do you think I’d be in? The assumption seems to be Ravenclaw, at least on the internet. And yes, ask me anything, sir, you know that.”  
  
“Not gonna interrupt you. Um…Ravenclaw ’cause you’re a genius. The writing, the stories, the way you understand character, the languages, the piano, all that. But also maybe Hufflepuff.”  
  
Sebastian tilts an eyebrow at him, waiting for reasons.  
  
“Because you’re sweet,” Chris explains, petting him more: gentle caresses set to the tune of lazy afternoon rain. “Because, y’know, that bit about being, um, true, and unafraid of toil? That’s you. Loyal. Giving your heart to things. Being good.” He touches Seb’s cheek, trails the hand lower, lets fingers wrap loosely around the pale column of that elegant throat. “Being a good boy.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes slip closed. He’s practically purring, loose-limbed and relaxed in his Dominant’s hold. Chris had made coffee—blueberry-pecan with extra sugar—earlier, and had put fuzzy green-and-black striped socks on his submissive’s feet. Tidepool eyes had laughed at the role reversal; had laughed and gotten shy, just a bit, at the sight of Chris on knees and caring for him.   
  
Chris knows about the cold. Knows what Sebastian’s told him about the cold. That in fact it’s not the chilly temperature as such, but the grey, especially day after day: the colorlessness that flattens the world. Leaden and dull.   
  
He’s wondered privately—not asking, not sure whether Seb’s ever even considered this—if they should talk to someone. He’s looked up seasonal affective disorder, which apparently is pretty common, and has confused himself by reading too much about sunlight and serotonin and the actual physical processing of enzymes. He wouldn’t jump to conclusions about diagnosing the man he loves, and he’s damn unqualified to even try.  
  
But he hates seeing Sebastian get quiet and withdrawn and thinner, under stone skies. His heart hurts, sick at the sharpness of fairy-like cheekbones.  
  
He’ll turn on every light in their house. He’ll buy every book on Sebastian’s Amazon wish list. He’ll cup Sebastian’s face in his hands and tell him that he’s good, he’s so good, he’s Chris’s good boy. He’ll use the cane and the flogger and the restraints and the vibrating toys; he’ll offer Sebastian the soft rainbow-hued floating clouds of subspace where he’ll be safe and loved and nothing’ll cause harm.   
  
He’ll make the world glow again if he can. Forever.  
  
They’ve said that now: forever.  
  
Yes, Sebastian had said. Not now, you’re right, this is happening fast. But soon. When you do ask me, yes.  
  
“Yours. Yes.” Sebastian nuzzles his head into Chris’s hand, which, distracted, has failed at petting. Chris hastily gets back to that. Important. His submissive goes on, “So, then…I can pause in the misadventures of child wizards for a moment…what did you want to ask? Before I derailed you?”  
  
“You know the answer we gave during the q&a? Why someone should be on Team Cap?”  
  
Sebastian tips his head back to look his Dominant in the eye. His gaze sparkles. Chris gets breathless, momentarily dizzied. That sparkle’s the best part of his life. His soul. “By we you mean you wrote that message and told me to be the one to hold it up, sir?”  
  
He’s laughing. He’d been right there playing along: eyes huge and excited and ready to grab Chris’s scribbled sign and hold it up for cameras, reaching over to hold Chris too, turning on a teasing smolder.  
  
_We’ll make your wildest dreams come true,_ Chris’d gone with. If fans only knew. His own dreams _are_ coming true, over and over, every day.  
  
He kisses Seb’s eyebrow. “I love you, kid. What are your wildest dreams, anyway?”  
  
Which earns a quizzical expression. Even Seb’s eyebrows display emotion. Eyebrows and curving lips and chin-dimple: every bit of him all in, every feeling, every time. “I’m fairly sure you know.”  
  
“No, come on, I don’t mean, like, you want to take me to Rome and run around showing me all your favorite pizza places while we’re in public and I can play with the remote for your vibrating—”  
  
“Next autumn. I’m looking into hotels with sturdy bedposts and soundproofing.”  
  
“Just say when. I’ll buy you a new collar. Something fancy and decadent, jewels and little golden chains or whatever, like artwork.”  
  
“Like Carnival masks and the eighteenth century. Would you want me in a mask, sir? Plus nipple clamps. More gold.” Sebastian’s partly teasing him but partly not, beautiful and interested in the idea: himself gilded and decorated, pain and pleasure made into art, for Chris, for them both. “Do I get a cock ring?”  
  
“Cock cage,” Chris says. “Elaborate one. Maybe even something here.” He’s got a hand in Seb’s sweatpants now, finding that lovely thick cock; as it stiffens under his ministrations, he taps the tip, the slit, meaningfully. They’ve played with sounding once or twice; Sebastian adores being stuffed full in every conceivable place, filled up with Chris’s hands and cock and toys, whatever Chris chooses to do with his body, torment and ecstasy. Sebastian loves denial and delay of release, being good for his Dominant, reduced to sobbing electric arcs of physical sensation.   
  
He says, low and dark, toying with Seb’s rapidly firming erection, “Would you like that, baby?”  
  
Sebastian whimpers, and squirms in his lap.  
  
The rain patters a song of glorious encouragement on the windowpane.  
  
“You didn’t answer me,” Chris tells him, increasing his grip on vulnerable flesh, hearing the gasp of desire. “Tell me.”  
  
“Yes…” Sebastian shivers. His eyes’ve gone darker, deep pools of want. “Please, sir, Chris, yes.”  
  
“Not that one. Or, yeah, that one too. But. The first question. What do you dream about?” He honestly doesn’t know, he’s realized, asking the question. Or rather—he does, Seb’s told him: laughing fantasies about Rome, about writing a book of short stories someday, about the desire to have Chris tie him so tightly he can’t move and then fuck him while he’s helpless, turned on almost past the point of bearing by the incontrovertible act, defenseless and taken and claimed…  
  
All of those are achievable. Daydreams and hopes and imaginings, yeah. But human-sized. Manageable. They can go to Rome; they have the money. Seb’s a brilliant writer, and contacts from Marvel’s publishing arm have already indicated a desire to assist in that regard. And Chris is _damn_ good at tying knots.   
  
Your wildest dreams, he’d said, joking, writing a message to hold up to the internet. They’ll come true.  
  
“What do I…” Seb considers this question through an evident haze of arousal, and a bit of concern. The tension in Chris’s body must be legible, words that aren’t words but that Sebastian can read. Because those pale happy eyes know him. The way no one else ever has. All his clumsy languages. “I assume you don’t mean the one about meeting a lumberjack at a pie-eating contest. I suspect my subconscious enjoys your beard.”  
  
“Not just any random lumberjack, I hope. He’d better be good to you.”  
  
“Well, he was you, so of course he was. No, I know what you’re asking. I just…I don’t know.” Sebastian puts his head back on Chris’s shoulder, sighs: not unhappily but comfortably, as if thinking the question over in a safe spot. “I said you know already. What I dream about. You do.”  
  
“Really?” He rests his head atop his submissive’s. Sebastian’s so wonderful: generous heart, musician’s hands, unabashedly geeky exuberance, sassy little comments that slip just right into Chris’s need to haul him over a knee and redden that pert ass, and the sweetest small voice when saying please. “You’d tell me, right? If there was anything you, y’know, wanted? Anything at all.”  
  
“Dress up as a lumberjack for me.”  
  
“What, seriously? I mean…yeah, if you…”  
  
“No, Chris, I’m joking.” One elegant finger pokes him in the ribs. “Though…maybe sometime. When you took me camping that first time, and you were carrying firewood …I kept staring at your arms. Very impressive.”  
  
“Lumberjack can build fire,” Chris says. “Lumberjack can make blueberry pie. Lumberjack can carry you off to the woods and ravish you in a log cabin where he’s already brought along your favorite books.”  
  
“I love you, sir.”  
  
“Love you too. I just…” He flops a hand uselessly. He’s still holding Seb’s cock with the other, hand down those sweatpants, but this is less relevant at the moment, or it is but only insofar as it’s reaffirming for them both. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not doin’ enough, y’know? For you.”  
  
Sebastian stares at him.  
  
“I mean…you’re so…you give me, like, all of you, and you…you don’t ask for anything I can’t make happen, like, pretty quick, easy, y’know, and…I want you to be happy…”  
  
Sebastian stares at him some more, and then sits up—Chris has to let go—and swings a leg over him, sitting back down in Chris’s lap, leaning in: nose to nose. The rain picks up; Chris’s heartbeat picks up. Thundering.  
  
“I’m wearing your sweatpants,” Sebastian points out. “They’re soft. I’m warm.”  
  
“Um…”  
  
“You found socks for me because you thought my toes might be cold. You buy me books I’ve been wanting for ages. You listen to me talk about wanting to have kinky sex with you in Rome and you start figuring out which toys to bring. I told you I had a dream about a lumberjack and you offered to dress up if I actually meant it. You _love me_.”  
  
“So much,” Chris whispers, voice cracking. “So much.”  
  
“You want to know what I dream about,” Sebastian says. “My wildest dreams, the most extravagant, the ones I never thought could come true. But, Chris—you gave them to me. You give them to me. You’re my home and the place where I fit in—the place where _you_ fit in, in me, fuck, sorry, couldn’t resist—”  
  
“I love you!”  
  
“—and—and everything I used to be scared of, not being good enough, not belonging, not knowing whether anyone really liked me, that’s the part that’s not true, not anymore. I’m yours. I belong to you. You love me and I love you. And that’s—”  
  
He stops, laughs: the kind of laugh that’s next-door to tears, not from sorrow but from impossible joy. That joy reaches into Chris’s heartstrings and plays melodies. Chris’s hands reach up to touch him, to steady him, as Sebastian sits in his lap and smiles and talks about home.  
  
“That’s what I dream about,” Sebastian finishes. “The good dreams, the happiest ones—the ones about sex, oh fuck yes, those too. Always just being with you.”  
  
“I _love_ being with you—”  
  
“And maybe this thing we can try with a ginger root.”  
  
“This _what_ ,” Chris says, laughing, crying, eyes overflowing because he’s a goddamn romantic who’ll weep at everything and especially at the love of his life telling him that, yes, he’s good enough too. “Ginger root?”  
  
“I was reading porn on the internet,” Sebastian says contentedly, squirming around, “and I had to go and look up figging, and, well, this sounds like a thing I would in fact like, the way it’s supposed to feel, here, let me show you…”  
  
Chris puts a hand on the iPad: not a no, but a pause. Their eyes meet. “I can buy ginger.”  
  
“I absolutely trust your ginger-acquiring skill,” Sebastian tells him, pale blue gaze saying exactly that, every important word; Chris shoves the iPad away, flips them over on the couch, pins him down, yanks off his sweatpants and t-shirt, kisses him as the rain erupts in joyous force. Sebastian laughs again, lifting hips obligingly. Chris kisses his stomach, making sure the beard scratches over smooth skin. They’ve bought a giant couch for a reason; it’s basically a bed made of cushions.  
  
Their cushions. Their home.  
  
The world’s shining with emotion. Lightheaded and fizzy. Like ginger ale. Like the roll and crash of sea-waves and a passionate storm.  
  
“I want to watch you come for me,” Chris whispers, gazing down at him, hand busy on Sebastian’s cock. That length has taken a decided interest again, fattening in his grip. “That work for you, baby?”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian breathes, gazing up at Chris kneeling above him. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Good,” Chris says, the only word he’s got left amid radiant happiness. “Good boy.”  
  
He does know that one works; always has, some complicated combination of praise kink and phrasing and Chris’s authority that knocks Seb right into that sweet obedient headspace. Works now too: a shudder runs through his submissive, head to toes, and Seb’s cock drips wet at the tip, suddenly.  
  
“You do like that, don’t you?” Chris leans down over him, weight atop him, and kisses him: openmouthed and heavy, tongue claiming Seb’s mouth, fucking him with the kiss, a reminder of every other movement of Chris inside him. Sebastian moans, quivering. His body trembles; he’s getting lost in command and surrender. “My good boy. So sweet, so happy to be mine, doing anything I ask…you love that. Getting fucked, getting my hand inside you, getting off on everything I want to do to you…”  
  
Sebastian sobs softly, squirming, flushed and gorgeous. He’s panting words, _yes_ and _yours_ and _yes sir, please,_ frantic.  
  
Chris kisses his cheek this time, whispers, “I’m yours, you know that, I love you so fuckin’ much, I’ll always take care of you,” and sits back, pausing to pinch Seb’s right nipple along the way.  
  
Sebastian cries out, so he does it again, rolling, twisting, imagining the taut little bud in a golden nipple clamp, decorated and gleaming. Sebastian’s sobbing, both nipples tender and sore, when he’s finished; he knows the pain’s gone right to Seb’s head, to his cock, to the sublime swirl of endorphins and arousal. He murmurs, “So good, baby, taking that for me, so pretty, feels good, doesn’t it,” and Seb whimpers, head rolling across couch cushions. He’s far gone now, drifting on a sea of white-gold words and sensation, everything Chris is coaxing from his body.  
  
“I want to watch you come,” Chris tells him, and gets his cock in a good grip, stroking him, swift firm pumps, up and down the shaft with a rub at the spot on the underside of the head. Sebastian lets out small desperate sounds and tries to thrust into the hold, so Chris gives him more: faster, harder, a scrape of thumbnail over his dripping slit for a hint of pain, and that does it; his submissive gives a choked cry and jerks under him and comes helplessly, a spill of milky fluid across his own stomach and chest.  
  
Chris groans out loud at the sight. His body reacts. Sebastian lying splayed out beneath him, streaked with come from the climax wrung out of him at Chris’s hands, making barely-conscious tiny overwhelmed sounds when Chris strokes his oversensitive dribbling cock…  
  
Kneeling there in silvery storm-light, he fumbles down his own sweatpants—he’s still mostly dressed—and gets a hand on his cock, which is granite-hard and demanding release.  
  
Sebastian wakes up enough to gaze up at him, distant, dreamy; and licks his lips, an invitation.  
  
Sebastian loves making Chris feel good. Sebastian loves knowing he’s made Chris reach that peak too: part of being good, the way Seb wants to be. Sebastian also loves Chris’s cock filling his mouth, Chris’s come given to him to drink down and lap up when splashes land over his lips.  
  
Chris kneels up more, above him, and works his own cock: rapid movements, awkward with need, so close already from the sight and the sounds and the surrender on display before him. One of Sebastian’s hands—his Dominant hasn’t said he can’t move—drifts up to rest on Chris’s thigh, an uncoordinated undemanding gesture, simply an anchor.  
  
The pure trust in that touch floods his body with light.  
  
He comes that way, painting Sebastian’s parted lips and closed eyes and chin and throat with white-hot love. He bends down and trails an index finger through the mess and pushes it into Seb’s mouth. Sebastian licks up every trace, mouth pliant and warm and willing, eyes fluttering, half-open. Chris keeps him there, feeds him a bit more, plays with his tender nipples and his softening cock. Sebastian’s beautifully responsive even this far in subspace, and moves languidly under caresses, mouthing at Chris’s fingertips, instinctively reacting to stimulation.  
  
Chris plays with him until Seb’s nearly asleep, lulled by subspace and exhausted by inexorable sensation. They do need to check in, though, so he stops rubbing his submissive’s poor overly-teased sensitive cock, and settles down along Seb’s side, throwing a leg over him, talking to him, rubbing his hip and stomach instead, grounding.   
  
Sebastian wakes up slowly, disoriented and drowsy but tranquil and well-pleasured. “…sir…?”  
  
“Right here. I’ve got you, baby.” He pets the closest hip again, snuggles their bodies closer. “You were so good. I love you, I’m here, you’re so fuckin’ perfect for me, take your time.”  
  
“My eyelashes feel sticky.” One more blink. “My…all of me. Feels sticky. I think my nipples hurt. Sorry, I…don’t mean that exactly. Still processing.”  
  
“I know. How bad, though? I was kinda rough with them.”  
  
“Not bad. I like feeling it, anyway. I’m okay.” Sebastian grins at him: worn out, awake, covered in his own and Chris’s come. “I’m fantastic. I feel…incredible, in fact. I don’t even know. I’m—wow. Yes. Very wow.”   
  
“Wow, huh?”  
  
“Chris?”  
  
“Yeah, kid?”  
  
“You’re my favorite lumberjack,” Sebastian says mock-solemnly, cocooned in Chris’s strong arms, eyes dancing in the water-light of the rain as it slides down glass, making Chris’s heart dance along, “you’re my best dreams come true.”


End file.
